


sobriquet

by mitsys



Category: Transistor (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Pre-Canon, References to Canon, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 14:49:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13413549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mitsys/pseuds/mitsys
Summary: sobriquetsōbrə-kei(noun)a nickname, usually given by another. oftentimes, a sobriquet will become more familiar than the person's original name.Before they were the Muse and the Boxer, they were nothing more than old friends.





	1. Mr. Nobody

**Author's Note:**

> For Eme, one of my dearest friends. Thanks for stickin' around.

**.:.:.**

**Mr. Nobody**

**.:.:.**

Even now, he still remembers the first time he saw her.

He was still flunking every class and getting punished for fighting every other week. Hadn't earned the nickname _'Boxer'_ yet, but with his track record, he was already well on his way to it.

He'd left his Selection boxes unmarked at every checkpoint.

There had to be something wrong with him. What person had no talents, no passions, no aspirations? A resident without a Selection was useless to the infrastructure of the city. Dead weight.

A nobody.

 _But her,_ he remembered thinking, _she's going to go somewhere, make a name for herself._

Perhaps he'd end up doing the same.

**.:.:.**

Her first performance had been a small one.

He went to all of the events back then. Concerts and galleries, fairs and shows, presentations and speeches alike. Maybe he liked seeing the all of the talented people doing what they liked. Maybe he hoped it would inspire some deep, dark part of him into being good at something.

He never exactly found his spark, but he did find that he was good at showing up early.

She'd been a year away from her Selections, granted a special place on the roster for a solo. Everyone before her had come onto stage looking nervous: slick-palmed and flushed in the face. Out of their element. He'd lost count of how many people came and went, lugging instruments and partners and chairs. They were all talented, but they all melted together until it was hard to remember who was who.

All but her.

He never liked putting people above others -- as the lowest rung on the food-chain, he figured he didn't have a right -- but he knows the moment she ascends the steps that she's going to be different.

She'd had longer hair back then. He remembers how the waves had fallen over her shoulders as she walked, long strides that made the stage seem longer than it was. She had a quiet sort of confidence. Something strong and unfazeable.

No hesitation. She'd wrapped her fingers around the mic and taken a breath, keeping her eyes from the crowd. He'd wondered if she was nervous. If she was, he couldn't tell. She'd hummed once, just to test the quality, and then she'd begun to sing. No accompaniment; she could carry the melody herself.

He liked to think he could remember the tune or the words, but all he can recall was the silence in the crowd. It ended just as soon as it had started, and no-one remembered to clap until she'd taken her bow.

"Wow, she's certainly going to make it to the grand stage," someone said over the applause, and he came to his senses enough to do the same.

"Yeah. Maybe she'll do even more than that," he'd said in reply, and meant it.

**.:.:.**

In his entire career at Traverson Hall, he was only late twice. Both times were because of Red.

He didn't like dawdling. He already had a reputation as a troublemaker, no need to add 'late' to his resume.

He has one class in the west wing, which housed the (rather lackluster) music program. Traverson Hall was known for its civil planners, not its musicians. Selections like Music and Art weren't common -- mostly due to lack of interest.

He's heard mentions of potential in the nascent art programs, though. Some trailblazer was kicking up enough dust to get people's attention. He wonders if it will last.

There's a glancing view of red hair as he rounds a corner, and he turns his head to follow it. The girl is nearly a head shorter than him, her hair a wild tumble of crimson over her shoulders, and he stops as she disappears behind the corner.

He stares at the spot before turning away, and he's an unfortunate moment late for his management class. The Instructor sends him back out, telling him to come back with a pardon, and he thinks of the color red as he walks back down the halls.

**.:.:.**

"Still no Selections?" the Planner asks, and she twists her coral-pink lips into a frown. "You know you'll have to choose eventually."

He sinks a little lower into his chair. Perhaps if he shrunk himself down enough, the chair would buckle inwards and send him careening through space. "I was under the impression that Selections weren't mandatory."

She gives him a sympathetic look. "No, of course not. We cannot force you to do anything, but..." She folds her hands in the center of the desk and leans forward. "I won't lie to you. The Selections can offer you a number of opportunities."

"But once I choose my Selection, that's it," he clarifies, and the civil planner looks momentarily uncomfortable.

"Yes, that is correct, but we have programs to make sure you choose something you're well-suited for."

He lets his head loll against his hand before he stands up, nodding in the planner's direction. "I'll think about it some more. Thank you."

**.:.:.**

It's a while before he runs into her again.

He stuffs his hands into his pockets as he trots down the stairs. The west wing was the only building in Traverson Hall that had an unlocked entrance to the roof, and he liked to take advantage of the view.

Still, he had to come down sometime. Mid-day break was nearly over, and he didn't feel like getting flagged by his planning professor again.

There's an eerie sense of déjà-vu as he rounds the corner, and he barely has a moment to consider it before he shoulder-checks someone. The glancing blow is hard enough to make him sidestep away, and he turns to apologize.

At the sight of red hair, his jaw snaps shut.

"Sorry," she says first, and he spots the open binder of sheet music in her hands. "I wasn't paying attention to where I was going."

"No problem," he bites out. She has a soft face, he notices first. She's pretty, he notices second. He looks sideways towards the wall to avoid staring too closely. "I wasn't paying much attention either."

Putting his hands back in his pockets, he shifts his weight to keep walking. He bumped into her, they apologized, end of interaction. He wasn't really the type of person people stopped to talk to.

She takes him surprise by backing up a step, leaning into his line of vision. "Not to be nosy, but do you have an art class here? I feel like I've seen you before."

He lifts his shoulders into a halfhearted shrug. "I have a project management class up the hall. I'm no good at music."

"It's not just music," she says quickly. "And anyone can be good at art. It's just like anything else."

Well, he wasn't good at 'anything else', either. He doubted training in the fine arts would change that. He keeps that part to himself; no need to unveil himself as one of Traverson's least likely to succeed. "I'll keep that in mind next time I hop Selections."

"We have concerts sometimes, if you're interested," she offers, looking excited by the idea of ensnaring someone else into the program, and he wonders if she saw him at the last concert. (Probably not, but he can dream.)

He thinks back to the last time he heard her sing -- the silence in the crowd and the way she'd hummed into the mic before the piece. Yeah, he wouldn't mind a repeat performance. "I'm pretty good at showing up early, so count me in."

The warning bell chimes above their heads, and he pulls his hand from his pocket to gesture above them. "That's my cue. I'll see you around."

She smiles in his direction. "If you get bored with management, feel free to drop by the music room sometime."

"I'll definitely think about it," he says as he turns away, and he's barely through the door when the late bell rings.

**.:.:.**

Feeling the slow, hazy heat of blood reach his lips, he cringes at the taste. Like old pennies on carpet. Getting socked in the face never gets any easier.

He moves to wipe his mouth on his hand before thinking better of it. Better to just use his sleeve. This shirt was already ruined, at least now he could stem the bleeding with it.

In all fairness, the fight wasn't his fault this time. Just some jackass who wanted to know if he could actually throw a punch. Apparently rumors about his last tangle spread fast. It wasn't every day that a 'nobody' busted someone's lip.

_("I don't think Fighting is an option at the Selections booth," one of the boys remarks snidely._

_"Maybe, but we've all got to be good at something," he says back, pushing himself away from the wall. The boy on the left steps in front of him, herding him back a step. Glancing between the two of them, he sighs. Same shit, different day.)_

He finds a bathroom near the entrance of the west wing, and a passing glance at the mirror tells him the damage is superficial. He prods gingerly at the quick-forming bruise. Not bad, the guy's fist had only clipped him. When the water from the tap runs clear, he hits the faucet and pulls up his shirt to dry his face. At least he was done bleeding.

The stains are quickly drying into a morbid Rorschach test, so he cuffs his sleeves over his elbows to hide them. The weather was scheduled to be cool and dry, and he quickly decides to walk home. It wasn't like his management class was going to be very productive anyway.

Halfway out the door, someone jogs up alongside him. He makes a point to ignore them, but they wave a hand to gain his attention. "I saw you fighting a minute ago," the person says, and he doesn't have to turn his head to know its the boy from his Planning class.

(What was his name again? He doesn't remember.)

"I hope it was entertaining," he replies boredly, but that doesn't seem to deter them.

"You're like a professional," the stranger pipes up again, and he glances over to see dark hair. They're the same age as him, just shorter, with boyish features with intelligent eyes.

He sighs. "I don't think professionals get socked in the face on a regular basis."

The stranger tries to fall into step with him and fails, struggling to keep up with his long strides. "It happens to the best of us, don't worry!" He bounds forward to match pace with him. "You know, you remind me of the Scrapper."

There's a lamppost ahead of them. If he hasn't shaken this guy by that point, he'll say something. But who knows, maybe he'll take a hint before then. "I don't know who that is," he replies, and the stranger waves his hands.

"He's a fighter! They do everything, from matches against one another to bodyguarding."

Jeez, getting into a ring to beat the snot out of someone was entertainment now? "Sounds exciting," he says instead, trying to walk the line between disinterest and courtesy.

The stranger doesn't pick up on his sour mood. "He is! You know, you're good at fighting. I'm sure you could get into that line of work --"

The lamppost draws closer, and he narrows his eyes.

"It's not very glamorous, but it pays well! And you don't need to make a Selectio--"

He stops to whip around, turning on his heel. "Do you want something? Is there a reason you're trying to pitch me a job as a human pitbull?"

The stranger puts his hand out. "I'm Theodore Caverly, Publicist and Planner in training."

God damn it, they were like spiders: hiding in every corner. He huffs out a sigh that makes his nose ache. "I'm not looking for job opportunities. I'm sure you civil planners would love to organize my life from the cradle to the grave, but I'm not interested. I'm still figuring things out."

Theodore waves his hands in a frenzied motion. "No no, that's not it! I'm just curious. They say you have no Selection in mind, and I think it would be a shame to let all your talent go to waste."

Talent? He was good at punching and taking punches. He shifts his weight to one side, shoving his hands into his pockets. "They..?"

"The other students!" he says quickly, and jerks his thumb back in the direction of Traverson Hall. "They call you 'the Boxer'."

Well, at least it was less ridiculous than 'the Scrapper'. He rolls his eyes. "Alright, fine. What's the password to this fight club of yours?"

Theodore brightens like he's won the lottery. "I'll show you," he exclaims, and starts off ahead of him. Theo turns to look at him, gesturing for him to follow. "Do you have a name, or should I keep calling you Boxer like everyone else?"

Pondering it for a moment, he glances sidelong at the street. "Boxer is better than Mr. Nobody, so it's fine."

Boxer.

What a silly name.


	2. Boxer

**.:.:.**  
  
**Boxer**

**.:.:.**

"Are you nervous?" Theodore asks, and Boxer keeps his eyes trained on the bandages. He still hasn't gotten a hang of wrapping yet, and every spiral of tape feels unfamiliar between his fingers. Tying off an end near his wrist, he starts on his other hand.

"Not really."

"Really?! I'm shaking in my boots," Theo replies, sounding incredulous. "I've never fought anyone before, and you're just waltzing into the ring like it's nothing."

Around the middle finger. Cushion the proximal, steady the metacarpals, rinse, and repeat. He finishes the loop and ties his wrist before responding. "Well, I hope you never have to fight someone. You'd be bad at it."

Theo feigns hurt as Boxer stands up. "You're right, but I'm still wounded. I'll leave the rough work to you."

"Deal." He flexes his hands to test the wrap, satisfied when it doesn't bunch into his palm. Theodore hands him a pair of gloves, and Boxer frowns at how bulky they are. "Who am I going up against again?"

"Casey. He's the youngest. They just want to see what you can do."

Obviously. They weren't going to let some eighteen year old idiot get concussed by a professional. Even fighters had honor. Boxer hoists himself into the ring, and he waves off Theo's wish for good luck. Either he'd get knocked out, or he wouldn't. No use praying over it.

Breathing out, Boxer sends up a quick word anyway, just in case someone was listening.

Worth a shot.

**.:.:.**

The forecast was programmed to be cloudy today.

He likes the cloudy days. They made a better backdrop than grey stormclouds or the blank, blue canvases of sunny days. During dawn and dusk, the clouds would light up with the colors of the sun. He liked those times, when the sky was prettier than the skyline.

It felt... natural. The beauty of Cloudbank was a marvel in itself, but he preferred dusty sunsets over towers of city lights.

Perhaps he was too old-fashioned.

Boxer takes his time unwinding the bandages from his hands, spooling the wrapping tape into a neat bundle. They'd told him to keep his hands wrapped overnight, a precaution to prevent swelling.

His knuckles are only a bit bruised, and he flexes his hands. They ache a bit, but he supposes that's a side effect of clocking someone in the jaw.

(It only took three rounds, but the referee had been impressed enough to call it quits. His opponent spat out blood before shaking his hand, and Theo didn't shut up the entire way home. If that match had been a test, it seemed he'd passed with flying colors.)

Stuffing the bandages into his pocket, Boxer stretches his legs out in front of him before standing up. He takes another glance at the sky before turning back towards the stairwell doors. Fighter or not, he was still trying to make a point in attending his management classes.

The west wing is empty, as usual, and he navigates through the hallways back towards the back of the building.

He thinks fleetingly of the music class. Traverson's small stage was somewhere around here; he's passed it enough times to know. Boxer slows his pace to an ambling walk, passing lecture halls and practice rooms as he goes.

He finds the entrance near the end of the walkway, and Boxer stops as he sees the half-open doors. There's a paper taped haphazardly to the door, reading 'Occupied' in neat print. There's some smaller script underneath, and he gets closer to read it.

_'Reserved for Music Selection rehearsal. We'll be out before last period. -- Red'_

Red, how uncanny. He wonders if this 'Red' and the girl he met were the same person. It would be fitting, after all. Boxer catches a glimpse of people behind the doors, and he watches them scurry around, carrying instrument cases and music stands. They seem to be packing up, and he glances at the sign again.

Well, it was coming up on last period. They were probably on their way out, and he supposes he should do the same. It would be embarrassing to get caught standing in the doorway like an outsider. Boxer shifts on his heels to leave, but a flurry of activity catches his eye.

One of the students pitches forward, tripping over a mic chord, and her instrument case goes skittering over the hardwood. Another figure dips to pick it up before offering a hand, and he stops short as he sees a now-familiar shade of scarlet.

She smiles at the other girl before pulling her up, and the girl gratefully takes her case back. They laugh together for a moment, exchanging smiles, and the redhead turns away. Her eyes stop on the doors, and Boxer's heart freezes in his chest. She must see him, because she lifts her hand in a wave. He returns it awkwardly and turns away, muttering an obscenity under his breath.

She meets him in the hallway, jogging to catch up. "I wasn't expecting anyone to drop by," she comments, pushing the door shut behind her. "A shame, you just missed the rehearsal."

"I'll make sure to show up on time for the real thing," he replies, and she turns around to shoot him a smile.

"I'm going to hold you to that. Oh!" she straightens a bit and puts out her hand. "I realized I forgot to tell you my name last time. I'm Red."

Ah, of course.

He takes her hand, watching as her gaze drops to his fingers. "I guess the rumors are true, then?" she says, and Boxer pulls away, surprised. She looks up apologetically. "Sorry, everyone just says you're good at fighting, and your knuckles are bruised. I just assumed."

"No," he says quickly. "You're right. I can't say I'm good at it, though."

He's expecting a taut silence or an excuse to leave, but Red brushes it off like it doesn't matter. Maybe to her it doesn't.

"We all think we lack talent." She glances back at the concert hall. "I'm all finished here, but I've got afterparty plans to iron out. Wanna walk with me? Only if you're going in the same direction, though."

He's not, but he agrees anyway. He could endure another tardy.

The party committee is in the east wing of Traverson Hall, a five minute walk from one side of campus to the other. Boxer shares the narrow walkway without touching her, not even allowing a brush of shoulders or elbows.

He's much taller than her, and she tips her chin to smile at him. It's nearly endearing, how sincere she is about breaking the stiff atmosphere. "I've known you for two weeks now, and we've barely spoken a word," she says, and he glances at her as they walk.

"Is there something you'd like to talk about?"

The question seems to throw her, and she faces forward again. He feels bad for letting her drag the conversation, but all of the questions he's been collecting seem rude or invasive.

"Well," she starts, "what's your name?"

He tucks his hands into his pockets, mulling over the question for a moment. "I don't prefer anything particular, if that's what you're asking."

"It's not. What do people call you? Do you call yourself anything?" Red silently edges out of the way for a passerby, and falls back into step beside him. The familiarity makes his chest ache. "I can't keep calling you 'Mr. Nobody' forever."

"Sure you can," he replies nonchalantly. "Lots of people do."

Red turns her head to scowl at the pavement, and Boxer purses his lips. She's right, he can't keep going by 'Mr. Nobody' for the rest of his life, but his real name feels like a secret best left unsaid. Something he should keep to himself.

"Boxer," he offers after a moment, and Red looks up to glance at his face. "My friends call me Boxer."

"Are we friends, then?"

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "I suppose so."

**.:.:.**

"I'm sure you already know, but this will be our last meeting before your Selections," the civil planner says, and watches her mouth purse into a frown. He kinda feels bad for her, getting stuck with a hopeless case like him. It was a planner's duty to make sure everyone found their place, and she got stuck with a defective puzzle piece.

Too bad he could never remember her name. He feels like he should make her a card or something.

"I'm aware of that," he says in reply, and he glances at the stack of files on her desk. She has his folder open in front of her, but it's disturbingly thin. Probably full of all his declined checkpoints.

The planner folds her hands in front of her, covering his file with her clasped fingers, and Boxer looks up at her. "I've heard some things about you from the headmaster," she starts, and he narrows his eyes. "We think you might be a good fit for the Guardians."

The Guardians. Protectors of Cloudbank. He'd heard of them, but they were rather elusive. Cloudbank was a tranquil place; it wasn't every day that people had to be called on-scene to break up riots. Still, the job was on the rougher side. He'd watched a Guardian put a guy down once, and he'd nearly broken the man's jaw trying to shove him towards the concrete.

There had been some controversy, but the riots had quelled for a time after that.

(More out of fear than anything else, he thinks, and the thought puts a bad taste in his mouth.)

Boxer shifts uncomfortably, but the planner digs in her heels. "It's a good place for someone like you, and it could save you the trouble of finding a new Selection."

"Someone like me," he repeats. He stands up and gives the planner a curt smile. "Thanks, I'll consider it."

**.:.:.**

Theodore isn't here today.

Boxer slumps into a sit against a wall, and he watches as the others warm up. It felt strange, being an outsider here too. Usually Theo would run his mouth while Boxer stretched and wrapped his hands, but he was mysteriously absent today. Boxer wonders if he got held up at Traverson.

Someone drops into a sit next to him, and a hand flashes into his peripherals.

"Casey," the guy says, and Boxer glances at his hand before taking it.

"Theo calls me Boxer."

The man gives him a crooked smile. "It fits, you're quite the spitfire."

Boxer raises a brow in askance, and Casey tilts his head towards the others. "We were surprised that you stuck around. Half of us expected you to take a hit and turn tail." He taps his cheek with his index finger. "That, and you've got a real mean right hook."

"Thanks," Boxer says, and he pauses for a moment before looking over. "While you're here, I have a question." 

Casey pulls up his knees to rest his arms. "Shoot." 

"How do you manage all of this?" he asks, "I thought Cloudbank outlawed violence."

"We're not _fighting,_ per se. It's more of a friendly sport."

"Where you hit each other," Boxer deadpans.

Casey gives a humored snort, covering his mouth his hand. "Where we hit each other. Welcome to the team." He pauses, and Boxer can feel his thoughtful gaze on the side of his face. "You got a Selection yet?"

Boxer shrugs noncommittally. "Not quite."

"It's okay if you don't know. They're optional for a reason." Casey stands up to stretch his arms across his chest. "I chose the wrong ones, but my life is just fine."

A woman pipes up from the corner of the room, and Boxer turns to see a brunette sorting through ticket stubs. "My Selections were Publicity and Management, and I still ended up here." She gestures towards the ring in the center of the room. "Sometimes you just find out you're meant for other things."

Casey laughs, a hearty sound from the middle of his chest. "You spent three years learning how to manage concerts, and now you're counting the tickets for boxing matches."

"The entertainment industry is the same everywhere," she replies dryly. "Besides, now I get to watch you idiots hit each other all the time."

Boxer listens to them needle at one another with a strange feeling in his chest. Selections were supposed to decide your fate, but apparently these people had skipped that part entirely. Could he do the same, or would he just crash and burn? Boxer turns the concept over in his head, weighing his options. "I heard that you do bodyguarding too," he asks, more out of curiosity than anything else.

Casey turns back to look at him, and he nods with a shrug of his shoulders. "We do lots of things. Weapons are prohibited, so knowing how to fight with your hands is a valuable skill. Scrapper was good at the bodyguard thing, and he preferred it over live matches. Now he's off shadowing Cloudbank's finest."

Boxer leans away as Casey ducks into his personal space. "Why? You know some up-and-coming celebrity? It's a little early to be earning your collar as someone's guard-dog."

Scoffing, Boxer rolls his eyes and leans further away. "No, I was just curious."

He thinks fleetingly of red hair, but he chases away the idea just as fast.

Even if she did go somewhere, _become_ something, he doubted she'd take him with her.

**.:.:.**

Lock the thumb, support the wrist, cross the fingers. Boxer focuses on the over-under of the wrapping until his hand is secure, and then he unwraps it again. He repeats this a few more times for good measure, just to make sure he has it memorized. It's slowly becoming muscle memory, but there are still days where he has to re-wrap his hands before a match.

Casey taught him the proper method. The 'fight club' had seemed like a polite bunch, aside from the fact they regularly had matches to see who could knock out who. (Kind of silly for him to point that out, he thinks, since he's technically a part of the whole charade now.)

His thoughts drift insistently back to his Selections. He was due for input in a week, and he still didn't know whether to take the plunge or hit 'Decline'.

He knew one thing, though. Becoming a Guardian was the last thing he wanted to do. Guardians protected the peace, not the people. He's sure he's over-complicating things, but... Boxer winds the bandages over his palm as he pushes his thoughts around.

Perhaps he was just a hypocrite. He didn't want to hurt people, but he still threw punches. He didn't want to be a Guardian, but he still found himself debating a bodyguarding job. He didn't want to commit to a Selection, but he was willing to commit to a Selection-less life.

Of all the roads in Cloudbank, and he's choosing the one left unpaved.

Boxer looks up towards the empty, blue sky. Blue skies, blue lights, blue moods. He's beginning to get sick of the color. There's a flash of scarlet in his peripherals, and he turns his head.

"Sorry to drop in," Red says, and Boxer relaxes a little. Her timing was truly impeccable. She tilts her head as she looks down at him. "I saw you heading for the stairs, and you looked pretty blue."

Boxer almost laughs. Oh, if only she knew. "I was just thinking."

Red drops to a sit beside him, and she peers over the railing towards the city below. "About Selections?" she asks without looking up, and Boxer glances over to study her profile. He lingers on the shadow of her lashes on her cheeks for a moment before turning away.

"Yeah."

She hums a low note and sets her chin on her arms. "Guess we're in the same boat."

Boxer feels a twinge of surprise. He wasn't expecting her to be unsure about her future -- she had enough talent for both of them and then some. He hums back. "Might as well be a paper boat, for all the stability we're getting."

She laughs at that, her face lighting up. "You're right." She turns back towards the sky, which is fading into a dusty purple. "Sometimes I wonder if my Selections matter at all."

"Do you know what you're going to choose?" he asks, and she drums her nails over her forearms.

They're painted with a chipped coat of white nail polish, and he watches her fingers rise and fall. Once, twice... by the third there's a rhythm. On the fourth beat, she stills her hands with a sigh. "Music... maybe Linguistics as my secondary."

Bold choices, especially for a school like Traverson. The Hall was known for churning out civil planners and city council members, not musicians with silver tongues.

"I don't think the Planners are very happy with my decision, though." Red looks forlornly towards the skyline. "I spent so much time planning and recruiting, I think they expected me to go for Management and Organization."

"I think Music is perfect," he says without thinking.

She turns to look at him, and Boxer carefully avoids her gaze. "You're the one who's been developing the art programs, right? Tons of people joined because of you." He falters a little before facing forward, finding it easier to talk to the empty air. "Maybe your music will inspire people too."

Red is silent for a long moment, long enough that he turns to look at her. Her eyes are glossy, and he stumbles over himself. "Sorry," he says quickly, "I wasn't trying to upset you."

"No," Red interrupts. "No, that's not it." She turns to look at him, and she gives him a smile as they meet gazes. "Thank you, Boxer."

He feels his ears flush and he turns away, a nervous laugh bubbling up in his throat. "Don't worry about it."

She has blue eyes, he realizes.

Maybe he doesn't mind that color so much after all.


	3. Boxer II

**.:.:.**

**Boxer**

**.:.:.**

"You're looking cheery today," Theo says, and Boxer glances at him before returning to what he's doing.

He throws a punch, and Casey catches it against the training glove. "I don't know what you mean," he replies, trying to keep his steps light as they circle one another.

Theo scoffs in disbelief. "I saw you smile twice today. You never smile."

"I smile!" Boxer shoots back defensively, and his next punch is a little harder than necessary. "You just kill my enthusiasm half the time."

Laughing, Theo rolls his eyes. "Says you, you're the king of all killjoys." He leans over the rope railing. "Did someone say something to you? Give you some good news?"

Not quite. Boxer lowers his fists and runs a hand through his hair, reminding himself to get a haircut next time he had a chance. "No. I just got a message this morning."

More specifically, it had been sent late last night, the tenth in a quickly-growing history between he and Red. The others were fairly inconspicuous: offers to meet for lunch, questions about each others' disciplines, and some plans for a meeting after class.

This one was different though. Apparently, something had compelled her to send him a message after their rooftop conversation. He could still remember it word-for-word, even if he feels silly for poring over it.

 **Red** (22:42)  
Thanks for the talk today. If you're still interested in hopping Selections, I think a career in pep-talking would be appropriate.

 **Red** (22:44)  
I'm kidding, of course. But I know whatever you choose will be perfect.

Theodore leans in, far enough over that Boxer expects the unsteady rope to flip him head-over-tail. "A message? From who?"

"None of your business," Boxer replies cagily. "I'm not obligated to detail her every word to you."

"Her?" Casey interjects, and Boxer whips his head around. "You got a belle, kid?"

God damn it all.

Theo looks over the moon. "Who is she? I can't believe you didn't tell us!"

"She's a friend," Boxer says, keeping his voice low and clipped. "And I don't want to hear a word suggesting otherwise."

Leaning back, Theo puts his hands up in surrender. "Fine, fine. But if she has you smiling like an idiot, I wanna know who she is."

Boxer turns away and gestures for Casey to put the mitts up again. "It doesn't matter. I'm sure you'll be seeing her name in lights sooner or later."

"So she's a performer?" Theo exclaims, and Boxer ignores him as he returns to his practice session. He should really learn to keep secrets better.

"Boxer, you cannot leave me hanging like that!"

He can, and he does.

**.:.:.**

New Years rolls in faster than he expects, and so do Selections.

"The terminal locks in your options once you hit 'Input', so make sure you've chosen the right Selections before entering your information," the planner says, and Boxer fiddles with his rolled-up sleeve. There's a screen above the hub, listing every possible discipline and how many people had chosen them.

All the numbers line up in a neat row of zeros, and Boxer drops his gaze down the list. Management, Organization, Planning, Politics... Music. His gaze stops at the bottom of the list, where the digital letters read 'Declined Participants: 0'.

"We'll begin in a moment. If you haven't received your number, please come get one now." No-one moves; and the planner smiles as she surveys the room. Just over one hundred graduating students, and she'd counted them all. "Good. There are three terminals, so input your choices and make way for the next person, please."

"The city of Cloudbank has something in store for the New Year, so be sure to stick around after your Selections!" She says lastly, and there's a ripple of excited whispers. People begin to step forward towards the terminals, and a semi-organized line forms near the Selections hub.

Boxer glances down at his own number. Apparently nine was his lucky charm today. He makes his way to the front, gently shouldering past the crowd of nervous students. A week ago he might have been just as anxious, but now he felt... resigned.

Red made her choice, and so could he.

There's a deathly silence over the input station, and Boxer watches as the first six students punch in their Selections. Some of them did it hesitantly, their fingers hovering over the glimmering screens, while others didn't think twice. Boxer glances at the results on the screen above.

The traditional disciplines were already adding up quickly. No sign of a Music Selection yet. Perhaps they'd both be firsts.

A terminal clears, and Boxer steps forward.

The options appear one by one, and the terminal whirs as the scrolling text appears over the screen. "Welcome to your Selections. Please select two disciplines and input your choices."

He glances over them quickly and takes a breath. The 'Decline' button was at the bottom, a sore thumb among the rest of the options. He hits it, and the terminal starts rolling out new dialogue.

"Are you sure? You will not be able to make any Selections in the future. Do you still wish to Decline?"

He hits the 'Input' button. Behind him, the 'Declined Participants' number clicks from zero to one. Several people fall into a hushed silence, and the Terminal displays its last question.

"What are the reasons cited for your decision?"

"Still figuring things out," he replies. The terminal seems to accept that, and it flicks to a new screen.

"Thank you for your cooperation."

Boxer turns away from the screen, and he pretends he doesn't notice the stares on his back as he walks towards the doors. He spots Red near the back of the crowd, her number clutched between her hands like a prayer.

She meets his eyes, looking just as surprised as everyone else, and he gives her a smile before stepping out of the room.

**.:.:.**

She meets him on the roof, and he doesn't have to look to know it's her.

Red sits a little closer this time, close enough that they could bump shoulders without scooting over. "The fireworks are gonna start soon," she reminds him, and Boxer nods.

"All hail Traverson Hall's freshly minted," he replies, and he sees her smile in his peripherals. She props her arms on the railing, and the silence stretches between them. It's not uncomfortable, just quiet.

"I chose Music," she says after a long moment, and Boxer turns to look at her.

He's glad. Really, truly glad. "And Linguistics?" he asks, and she laughs.

"And Linguistics."

They lapse back into wordlessness, watching the dusk melt into nighttime. It's cloudy today, he notices, and something warm washes over him. Whatever it was, he settles into it. He could stop thinking about his Selections -- or lack thereof -- for a little while.

It's a good night for fireworks, although he's sure that was decided on beforehand. The weather polls had been packed today: mostly students wanting a good view of the light-show.

The dark, cool tones of the night start to melt together, and Boxer can see the glow of Cloudbank's heart behind the darkness.

They even added stars this time. They blink to existence one at a time, little pinpricks in the pitch-black sky. Red leans towards the railing and points, her pale arm illuminated by the starlight. "Boxer, look."

He follows her hand to the city below. Darkness is sweeping over Cloudbank one district at a time. The lights flicker out, leaving the buildings dim in their absence. Boxer watches the city shut down until there's nothing left, just the Amphitheater's crossed spotlights.

Those disappear too, and the quiet, ever-present hum of Cloudbank drops into silence.

As if on cue, a firework shatters to their left, sprinkling over the city like snow. It's followed by another, then one more, and before long the entire city is bathed in light again. He watches as each firework drifts off, sparkling as it falls.

"I wish things could stay like this forever," Red says, her voice lost in the distant, booming crash of the fireworks.

He looks at her, watches as the light illuminates her profile. After moment he turns away, setting his eyes back on the brightening sky.

"Yeah. Me too."

**.:.:.**

He skips class the next day.

It's not really like he has _classes_ anymore. Traverson Hall offered a number of programs for up-and-coming citizens after their Selections, but he wasn't really a part of that anymore. He could go back and sit in on a lesson, but he doesn't see much of a point. He made his decision, and now he has to stick with it.

He tries to preoccupy his restless hands, lies upside down on his couch -- he even tunes into Wave Tennegan's radio show. They're talking about the New Year's firework show ("Amazing, I didn't expect the vote for the blackout to go through."), and Boxer flicks off his terminal after a short listen.

Around sunset, he decides to take a walk. Even the less-renovated parts of Cloudbank were still ever-changing and beautiful in their own way, and he spends an hour wandering the streets of the lower district.

He cuts through an alley to get back home, carefully sidestepping boxes of recyclable parts. The city would take them back eventually, but for now it was just useless junk. Boxer had heard that the new Highrise apartments adjusted faster than any other part of the city. They reprogrammed themselves every fifteen minutes, all according to the tenant's whims.

Sounds luxurious.

Still, they were a new fixture, and there were probably bugs to iron out. He didn't really care either way; there was no way he'd ever afford a Highrise. Chances are, he'd never have the opportunity to step foot in one.

He's starting down another alley when a trash compactor turns on, roaring to life behind him. He's used to that, but the panicked scuffling behind him is new. Something bursts from the empty boxes, lunging towards his legs.

Boxer stumbles back. He lands ungracefully on his ass, biting back a shout. The shape scrambles around him to dart towards the mouth of the alleyway, and he grits his teeth. Probably a stray cat; the lower district was full of them. The nicer parts of town had people that took care of that, but downtown Cloudbank wasn't so fortunate.

He turns to glare in the thing's direction, and he's surprised when it's still there.

It's not a cat at all, and he hears a mechanical squeaking as it approaches. It's more like a dog when he looks at it, but then again its not... alive in the traditional sense. The creature ventures forward, the hinge of its rusty leg whining with every step. It tips its head to study him, blinking curiously.

Boxer leans forward to get a better look. It was obviously the work of a talented Menagerist, but what was it doing here? Mechanical pets were a fad for celebrities with no time and lots of money. There was no reason for this one to end up in someone's recycle bin. It _looks_ fine, aside from the fact it's missing its pelt.

It's too dark to see properly, but he can see that the polished, white metal of its body is scuffed. Its legs are bare too, the hinges and springs wrapped in black cable. He read about these, how much work went into building their bodies and limbs. The fact that this one is still functional says a lot about the engineer.

The owner is probably pissed about losing it.

Getting up, he brushes the dirt from his pants. The machine backs up several steps, just to keep a fair distance between them. "Alright, you got me," Boxer says. "I'm going home. I hope you make it back to... wherever you're from."

Didn't those things have a homing sense? Unless someone wiped it and threw it out, it should have found its way home by now.

Whatever, it's not his problem.

Boxer shoves his hands in his pockets and turns to leave, making his way back towards the end of the alley. He only glances back once, and the little thing stays planted where it is, stiff and lifeless. Boxer tears his eyes away to keep walking. Jeez, what a scare. People should really Recycle their toys instead of just throwing them out.

There's a distant squeak behind him, then a few more, and they gain speed until Boxer turns around again. It's moved to follow, stopping a few feet behind him, and Boxer raises a brow. He'd never seen a machine act like that. Perhaps that was why the owner threw it out.

Turning away, he continues down the street. The squeaking starts up again, and this time Boxer keeps walking. Maybe it would give up. But then again, the last time he waited for someone to stop following him, he got the opposite of what he wanted.

Of course, the mechanical dog doesn't give up. If anything, it keeps edging closer until it's nearly at his heels, trotting along on rusty feet. Boxer pretends he doesn't notice, but it's hard to ignore the uneven footfalls of the machine behind him.

He's nearly home when there's a scrape of metal behind him, and he turns to see it struggling to get up. The hinge of its foot had finally broken, leaving its metal paw lying next to it. Boxer feels a twinge of pity. It stops moving to look up at him, its backlit eyes looking far too intelligent.

Well, now he felt _obligated_ to take it home.

Boxer kneels to gather it up in his arms, shoving the broken piece into his pocket. He was just gonna carry it home and see what he could do, and then he'd find the owner.

(A part of him knows he's being a sore liar, but he pointedly ignores it.)

He gets a few looks, carrying a broken, canine automaton down the street, but he doesn't have the energy to care. He hits the light switch as he enters the apartment. Not knowing where else to put it, Boxer sets the machine on the table.

It seems to accept that, swiveling its head to follow him around the room, and it watches as he tugs the toolbox down from the hall closet. He's no good at mechanics, but he knows enough. It's just a faulty spring and some missing screws, after all. Boxer rummages around until he finds fitting replacements. He ends up sacrificing the screws from a remote, but the repair is successful enough.

The paw doesn't have as much flex anymore, but it can stand and walk -- mostly. It's got a limp now, but he's trying to look on the bright side.

"Now for your ownership codes," he mutters, more to himself than the dog, and he finds a panel on the bottom of its stomach. He makes sure to turn the thing off first, just in case. He didn't want to mess something up while it was still... online? Conscious?

... Alive?

It takes a few minutes to integrate the machine with his personal terminal, and he finds the INFORMATION program with the rest of its processing files. His terminal whirs for a moment before it opens.

"We hope you're enjoying your purchase. What would you like to know?"

"Listed owners," Boxer replies, and the loading screen is there and gone in a second.

"This model has no registered owners. Would you like to input one?" It says, the response sprawling across his screen. Boxer drums his fingers over the tabletop. He hits 'No'.

"What is this model's name?"

"Subject not found," the program reads. "Would you like to input one?"

He hits 'No'.

Boxer pushes himself away the table. No use, then. He opens his window to lean out, propping his arms on the sill. Only a few stars tonight; a shame that New Years was just a special occasion. Resting his chin in his hand, he tips his head back enough to see the sky.

Tonight's vote was for cloudless and cool weather, and he can see the moon in clear view. It's wide and full, a pale dish in the center of the sky, and Boxer feels forlorn.

He wonders what Red is doing. He wonders if she's looking at the moon too.

He lets his thoughts drift before stepping away from the window, pulling it shut by the handle. The information program has gone into hibernation, and he wakes it by tapping the screen. It greets him with the same message, but Boxer skips to the point.

"I want to register an owner," he says, and program displays a new message.

"Who would you like to register?"

He folds his arms across his chest. Someone had thrown it out, so there was no shame in taking it in. Maybe it could be entertaining. "Boxer," he says after a minute, and the name appears on the screen in neat, block text.

"What would you like to name this model?" comes the reply. Boxer mulls over the question for a moment.

The moon is still bright through his window, and he steals a glance at it before looking back towards the terminal.

"Luna," he says. "I'll call her Luna."


	4. Boxer III

**.:.:.**

**Boxer**

**.:.:.**

His nineteenth birthday comes and goes, and Boxer spends it with a box of flatbread and Luna's company. (There's also a cheerful message from Red, along with an offer that they meet up for cake. He doesn't have much of a sweet tooth, but he agrees anyway.)

Luna's turning out to be a fine pet, even if she can't jump properly and insists on sleeping at the foot of his bed. He nearly trips over her six times before he starts to remember she's there, but he adjusts.

Casey takes charge of his training, and the rest of the group develops a keen interest in his progress.

"If Fighting was a Selection, you'd be the perfect fit," Eliza comments from the sidelines, and Casey throws a punch that Boxer ducks under.

Casey steps around him. "I'm gonna pretend you said that to me."

"Keep dreaming, sugar."

Boxer doesn't pay attention to either of them, too busy blocking a kick to his left. Before Casey can pull back, Boxer grabs him by the ankle and pulls, dumping him onto his back. Eliza laughs at that, the sound breaking off as she muffles herself behind her hand.

Casey yields quickly, grunting as he gets back up. "You got me, fair and square. I'm sure you'll be primed and ready for the ring by the end of this year."

Eliza whistles. "I don't think we've had a nineteen year old fighter since Scrappy."

"You know he hates it when you call him that," Casey says, "Besides, he hasn't fought in the ring since he started guarding that philanthropist."

"Niola Chein?" Boxer interrupts, perking up from his spot near the corner of the ring.

Casey nods. "You know her?"

"Kinda." She'd recently come out in support of underdeveloped regions in Cloudbank, requesting better transportation for the area. One of the regions was where he lived, an urban borough downtown. He'd gone to listen to her speech one day, and she seemed genuinely invested to help the less privileged parts of the city. He likes that people are looking out for the downtowners. 

Boxer starts to tighten his hand-wraps, retying them near his wrists. "I know her ideas are unconventional, but I didn't know she required protection."

Eliza hums thoughtfully, pulling a rubber band free from her wrist to put up her hair. "She's said some things that the Goldwalk committee didn't like. She doesn't approve the Guardians' methods either, so she requested private protection."

Well, they had another thing in common, then.

"I know Scrapper agreed with her politics, so he leapt on the opportunity to shadow her," Casey says, "He says bodyguarding is better when you care about more than a paycheck."

Boxer turns away, mulling over the concept. It would be nice to protect someone you cared about. Clapping his shoulder, Casey drags him away from his thoughts. "Come on, kid. Round two."

"Yeah," Boxer says, abandoning his daydreams.

**.:.:.**

He gets home late a few days later, nursing a bruised jaw. (Casey had apologized three times for flooring him during the skirmish, but Boxer waved it off. Taking hits was in his job description.)

Luna thrums to life when he touches the top of her head, and she sneaks out from under the table to tag at his heels. He's beginning to get used to her. It still feels a little strange, having a mechanical pet that's worth more than five months rent, but he's adjusting. He still can't figure out why anyone would leave her behind.

His personal terminal is blinking, the red light reminding him he has unread messages. Boxer makes his way over, carefully stepping over Luna as she dashes between his legs. The message is from Red, and he hits 'Open' as he sits down.

 **Red** (Today, 15:56)  
Hey. We're having a performance next week.

 **Red** (Today, 15:57)  
You did promise me an appearance.

 **Red** (Today, 15:57)  
Don't be late!

She's attached an invitation, and he glances over it before shooting back a response.

He hovers over the input field, debating his reply, but he's not sure what to say. He types a few things (Can't wait to hear your next piece -- Wouldn't miss it for the world -- It'll be nice to see you again --) but he backspaces every one until he's left with a blinking cursor.

Tapping out a new message, he hits 'send' before he can overthink it too much.

 **Boxer** (Today, 20:18)  
Being on time is my specialty. I'll see you then.

After a moment, he pulls away and shuts the screen down. Better to keep it brief and avoid embarrassing himself. Luna blinks inquisitively as he turns around, and he reaches down to pat her head. "I heard a new flatbread place opened up. I think it's worth a shot, don't you?"

She doesn't answer, just thumps her corded tail over the floor, and Boxer sighs to himself. Talking to a dog -- a mechanical dog at that. He stretches his arms as he gets up, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair.

When he gets back, there's another unread message at his terminal.

 **Red** (21:04)  
I can't wait!

**.:.:.**

The reception is surprisingly large. Either the Music program's popularity had tripled overnight, or Red pulled out all the stops during the invitation process.

Boxer wades through the gathering people outside Traverson Hall, apologizing as he bumps shoulders and treads on toes. The line at the ticket hub is a mile long, filled with people of all ages, and he takes a spot at the back.

Apparently Red spots him first. He's beginning to resign himself to the wait when she calls his name, and he watches her maneuver through the waiting crowd. Her hair is up, he notices. The updo leaves a few too-short ringlets to frame her face, and she brushes one back as she approaches.

"Hi," he says, and she smiles at him.

"Hey," Glancing back at the front of the line, she looks back at him with a sly look. "If you're interested, I can get you in early, no charge."

A tempting proposal. Boxer tries to take a quick count of the people in front of him, but when the number starts nearing the thirties, he turns back to nod. "I think I'll take you up on that."

She laughs and reaches out for his arm. She tugs him through the crowd easily, people stepping out of the way as she passes. Guests are already beginning to take seats in the auditorium, and he can see people setting up chairs and stands on stage. Red pulls him backstage before letting go of his arm, and she puts her hands on her hips. "I think we're gonna have a full house, don't you?"

"Yeah," he says, and he turns to look at the quickly-growing audience. "How did you manage this turn-out?"

Red looks excited at the question. "A Publicist from A-class offered to help me get the word out. I didn't expect so many people to show up, but --" She gestures at the crowd behind the curtain, her expression bright.

"Theodore Caverly?" he asks, suspicious, and she nods.

(... That damn meddler. He was too smart for his own good.)

"Do you know him?" Red asks back.

Boxer shrugs nonchalantly. "You could say that." He bites back a sigh, smiling down at her instead. "But I'm glad. You guys deserve this."

Red beams at him, but the moment is broken as someone calls her name. She looks back before touching his sleeve. "That's my cue. I'll see you after the performance, okay?"

"I'll wait for you," he replies, and she nods quickly before disappearing into the flood of performers and instrument cases. Hanging back for a moment, Boxer breathes out and decides to go find a place in the audience.

He takes the back stairs back into the arena, scanning the mostly-filled theatre. He quickly decides to stand in the sidelines instead of taking a seat. He felt far too anxious to sit down and bump elbows with someone for an hour.

A few more late-comers do the same, and before long the lights have dimmed. The audience quiets into hushed whispers, and someone enters from the left stage. The spotlights make her red hair look twice as intense, and her silver dress glitters as she takes the mic. "Thank you for coming," Red says, "and thank you for your interest in Traverson Hall's Music program."

Her voice is strong, even when speaking. Boxer is reminded of her last appearance. She really hadn't changed since then, but then again, maybe he's the one doing all the changing. The curtain starts to part, and Red gestures back towards the players behind her. "I'm proud to present the rest of the philharmonic."

She's good at this, he thinks. Being on stage, leading a crowd. It's probably the biggest audience she's had yet, but he doesn't see her wince once. She steps away after presenting the first group, disappearing back behind the curtains, and another person steps up to conduct.

The set passes quickly, the pieces drifting from one to the next. They're all beautiful, and the orchestra performs more as a unit than a bunch of individual pieces. He wonders what that feels like, to be a part of something bigger than you.

They bow together before filing off-stage, and the quartets and trios follow up. There's even an duet on the program -- he has to sneak a glance at someone else's, since he forgot to grab one -- and he notices that Red is listed last.

It's not long before she steps back on stage, and the applause for the previous group dies down as she approaches the mic. Like last time, she's skipping the accompaniment. She hums into the microphone, and the sound is warm and heavy in the speakers.

He's expecting her voice, he's been listening to her talk and hum for months now, but he still feels floored by it anyway. There's something heady about listening to her, hearing the lilt and flow as she sings. He listens to the lyrics this time, and there's something bright and hopeful about the words.

Cloudbank loves whirlwind romance and songs about tragedy: passionate pieces that are more vivid than meaningful. Red seems to challenge that outright, bending her poetry into something personal and soft.

The piece ends on a lingering, resolved note. She steps back to bow, a lock of her hair coming loose to brush her shoulders. The standing ovation doesn't seem to fluster her, and Red bows again before standing up. Her smile is dazzling, and his chest tightens.

She's miles away right now, standing on a stage he can't share, but he doesn't mind.

A crowd gathers when she finally makes her way out, congratulating her on her performance and asking for photos, and Boxer falls back. He promised he'd wait, and he was expecting this. There was no way she could leave unnoticed, especially with an audience of this size.

There's a future unfolding here, as people ask for her name and beg for a repeat performance. He's already beginning to lose her to greater things, _brighter_ things. Soon, he might be one of the people admiring her from afar: an old friend with nothing to offer but a listening ear.

Somehow, he doesn't mind that either.

**.:.:.**

Against all odds, he and Red stay in contact. Their rooftop meetings turn into concert-goings and drinks at the Canal's various cafes, and they drop each other words every week like clockwork. 

 **Red** (19:32)  
How does tomorrow sound? I heard there's going to be a speech on Goldwalk.

 **Red** (18:06)  
I have news, wanna hear about it over coffee? Well, tea for me, but you catch my melody.

 **Boxer** (17:56)  
Saw your show last week. Your new material sounds good. Tell me about it?

 **Red** (21:45)  
Got a gig singing at the Greenlit Lounge. Care to drop by?

He shows up early for every outing, orders black coffee at every cafe, and remembers her tea order. Chamomile and lavender, every time. Eventually, he gets into the swing of it and has it ordered by the time she gets there. The little things, and all that.

She keeps him updated on her life in little snippets, and he clings to every word. Every week it's something new. She hops from lounge to lounge before landing a private concert, and he watches her career flourish from the seat across her.

People love her, and he thinks he might love her too.

**.:.:.**

Red remembers his twentieth birthday, just like both birthdays before that. She surprises him when they meet for drinks, handing over a wrapped gift.

"I wasn't sure if you'd prefer blue wrapping paper or green, so I did both," she says, and he thumbs the overlapping edges. The present is rather heavy, but the flat, thin surface makes him second-guess what's inside.

"Both is good, I've always been pretty indecisive about what my favorite color is."

She laughs. "That seems to be a trend with you."

He feigns surprise, putting a hand against his chest. "Really? And here I thought my Selections were an isolated event."

They banter as they find a table, and by the time they order their drinks, Red is thrumming. Boxer folds the gift over in his hands before looking up at her, and she leans forward. "You're keeping me in suspense, and _I'm_ the one who bought the gift."

"A little preamble never hurt anyone," he defends, but he folds the wrapping paper back anyway. He pauses when he recognizes it, his hands stilling over the glass. It's a picture-frame, the black siding done up in gold triangles, and he recognizes the photo inside.

He and Red are standing together in front of Traverson Hall, her arm looped with his. She's in her silver dress, her red hair spilling out of its updo, and her smile far outshines his surprised expression. She'd dragged him in for a photo after the concert, and the camera had flashed before he had time to realize it.

Looking up, he sees Red's pleased grin. "I had to go track down the person who took the photo, but they were happy to send me the file." She reaches over to tap the surface of the frame. "You're pretty camera-shy, so this is the only picture I could find."

"It's perfect," he interrupts. "Thank you, Red."

She beams at him and sits back against the booth. "It was nothing."

**.:.:.**

A few months later, he returns home to a blinking terminal. Boxer takes off his jacket before swiping the screen. It's a message from Red, and he glances over it.

 **Red** (21:28)  
I got accepted for an artist showcase!

 **Red** (21:29)  
I'll tell you everything tomorrow. Coffee and tea?

 **Boxer** (22:09)  
Of course. Congratulations, by the way.

Perhaps this was her chance to hit it big, make it onto Goldwalk and earn herself a spot on Cloudbank's polls. To make it this far before twenty one... she was truly a trailblazer. Red's icon pops up at the bottom of the screen, blinking as she types, and her next response is sent a moment later.

 **Red** (22:11)  
I'm thinking orange and honey tea for tomorrow.

 **Red** (22:12)  
You know, just in case you wanted to order ahead.

 **Boxer** (22:14)  
I'll keep that in mind.

She really didn't miss a thing.

**.:.:.**

"Sybil Reisz," he repeats, the name feeling foreign in his mouth. It sounds professional, like something he'd see on a business card.

As if on cue, Red rummages around in her bag. She slides a polished piece of stock paper across the table, and it glitters as he turns it over. Holographic waves move across the the surface of the card as he looks at it, looping seamlessly in an endless tide.

 _Sybil Reisz, Supervisor.  
"_ _I love people!"_

He slides it back. "So this is the coordinator of the program?"

Red nods as she tucks the card back into her bag, her loose bangs falling in her face. "She was really friendly, and she liked my performance enough to personally invite me." Her breath comes out as a nervous laugh. "I wasn't expecting to get picked up this soon, especially by a Organizer like her."

Boxer knocks the table between them. "Don't be surprised. You've been on every lounge sign in town so far. People really like you."

Red smiles at him. "You never fail to impress me with your optimism, you know that?

"Mr. Optimism is my real name, didn't you hear?" he says, leaning back, and Red rolls her eyes with a laugh.

"I'm afraid I missed that grand announcement, Mr. Comedian."

**.:.:.**

Casey's prediction is right, he's in the ring by nineteen and winning matches by twenty.

Quite a few matches, actually. It's a slow climb, from relative obscurity to... less obscurity, but he claws his way up. Boxing isn't one of Cloudbank's most popular sports, but it works. His betting pools go up, his audience grows, and within the year he's put back enough savings to move out of his cramped apartment.

Boxer debates on where to go next. In the end, he settles on an apartment overlooking the Goldwater. He's on the other side of the bay, far from the glitz and glam of Goldwalk, but he's near the water, and that's all he wants.

He moves in a single afternoon, transporting his meager amount of things across town via speedway. Boxer takes Luna last, and even though she's shut down, he feels guilty for stuffing her in a bag. (He'd look sorely suspicious otherwise: some scruffy downtowner carrying an expensive automaton.)

Once Luna is free and set to roam, he opens all the windows to air out the dusty apartment. Setting his elbows on the sill, he looks out towards the water. Goldwalk glimmers on the other side, the city lights rippling over the water, and he takes a breath.

He could get used to this.

**.:.:.**

The picture is one of the last things he takes out. It's safer in his bag, and he feels paranoid about knocking it over while unpacking the rest of his stuff. He doesn't have nearly enough belongings to fill the apartment, but he manages. The photo-frame finds a place on his desk, next to his terminal, and he stares at it for a moment.

Perhaps he should come clean. About everything, from his name to... whatever he was feeling. If he put it in words, maybe he'd feel better. Feeling impulsive, he wakes his terminal and opens their conversation history. The last message is from hours earlier, sent from Red.

 **Red** (21:17)  
How is the new apartment? Have a good view of the city?

He hovers a hand over the screen for a second. Now wasn't the time. Boxer shakes his head. Now really wasn't the time, not with her career balanced on a knife's edge. He was a glorified streetfighter, and she was... so much more. The last thing she needed was some dramatics on his part.

Boxer types out a different message instead, hitting 'send' before pulling away.

 **Boxer** (01:02)  
I just finished unpacking. The view of the water is better than I expected, but the city looks smaller from over here.

He goes to bed after that, brushing his thoughts under the rug. Maybe there would be a moment when he could say something, lay it all out for her, but it wasn't tonight.

Lying awake, he begins to wonder if there would ever a good time.

**.:.:.**

Eventually, her messages stop coming.

It doesn't happen suddenly. It's more like a slow fade, a growing canyon between them. Boxer doesn't blame her, she's up to her neck in gigs, concerts, and requests, but was still managing to put out new content like clockwork.

And he... well, he was doing fine. Casey was badgering him to quit his bartending job and go professional, and he was beginning to seriously consider it. She was moving on with her career, and perhaps he should do the same.

He thinks about the message he nearly sent for nights on end, pondering every unsaid word, every unseen outcome.

(Maybe if he'd sent it, maybe if she felt the same, maybe if she responded...)

Boxer is sure he could spent eons of his life agonizing, but he forces himself to drop it. It was too late now. If he sent it now-- well, that took him to a new set of possibilities, and none of them were any better.

(He'd hold her back, he'd sour her view of him, he'd be a nuisance...)

Closing his eyes, Boxer puts his arm over his face. The string between them snapped, and he had to live with that.


	5. Boxer IV

**.:.:.**

**Boxer**

**.:.:.**

Theodore swipes a few times on his terminal, looking focused. "You know, you'll need a symbol if you go professional."

Boxer glances up from his hand wrap. "What?"

"You know," Theo gestures vaguely in the air with his free hand. "A calling card. Something that lets people know its you."

He tries not to scoff, and he shakes his head as he returns to what he's doing. "I'll pass." He really didn't want to draw any more attention to himself than necessary. He'd lived a comfortable two decades as Mr. Nobody, and he would like to keep it that way.

Not giving up without a fight, Theodore insists. "Just a little something! Like a logo on your hand-guards."

"I prefer bandages," Boxer deadpans.

Theo tries again. "Something on your sleeve!"

"No."

"A catchphrase!"

 _"Hell_ no."

He lets out an exasperated groan, and Boxer tries to bite back a laugh. Standing up, he flexes his hands and makes his way towards the ring.

"I'll find something you like, just watch!" Theo shouts after him.

"Try adding some triangles," he tosses over his shoulder, "I like those!"

**.:.:.**

Luna is in her usual spot when he comes in, her dormant form folded under the table. She 'sleeps' whenever he's gone, settling down somewhere quiet to wait until he comes back. He likes that, the fact that he doesn't have to worry about her while he's gone.

Apparently he should have, because she doesn't wake up when he touches her head. She stays quiet, her metallic head propped on her paws, and he tries a few more times before picking her up. Even her manual activation doesn't work, and Boxer twists his lips to the side.

His terminal buzzes as he plugs her in, and he runs the HELP program.

The loading screen sits, spinning, for a long, anxious moment. When it finally unfolds, he doesn't feel any better.

"SERVER STATUS UNAVAILABLE. TRY AGAIN?"

He does, several times, before giving up on his fifth attempt. Obviously he wasn't going to get a connection anytime soon. Boxer feels bad, leaving her sprawled out over his desk, so he carries her back to his room and sets her down in the corner. He'd try again in the morning. If that didn't work, there had to be a Menagerist in town who worked on her model.

Boxer tries to follow his usual routine, but even that feels strange without Luna nipping at his heels. Perhaps he's gotten a little too dependent on her.

He goes to bed early after an evening of anxious busy-work. His kitchen is organized, his desk spotless, and even his inbox is cleared and sorted. (He's left he and Red's message history untouched, though. Archiving that felt sacrilegious.)

Boxer lies awake for another hour after that, his mind racing. He's still brimming with nervous energy, but eventually he forces himself to shut his eyes and focus on sleep.

**.:.:.**

He has a dream.

The field stretches as far as he can see, meeting with the red sky at a distant, unreachable point. The reds and yellows melt together into orange hues above and below him, but even surrounded by warmth, he feels cold. He puts his hand out, and a lonely breeze brushes past his fingers. The cloudy circuits hum above him, telling him to just _look up---_

Boxer jerks awake with a start.

He sits upright in bed, rubbing his bruised knuckles. There's a sense of urgency in his chest, a longing ache for something. What a strange dream. He gets out of bed and stretches his arms over his chest. The pale, limp form of Luna glares at him from the corner, and he avoids her blank gaze. He'd get her checked out tomorrow, and she'd be back to normal.

The blinking light of his terminal draws his eye as he walks into the living room. He thinks fleetingly of Red: their late-night conversations coming to mind.

When he wakes his terminal, the message turns out to be nothing more than a reminder from Theo. He doesn't read it, just marks it as seen. He should really know better by now, but for a moment he'd really believed -- Boxer shakes his head. He needs to let go. It's been a year; she moved on and he should do the same.

He lays in bed for an hour after returning to his room, trying to shake the uneasiness from his dream. Eventually he turns over to lay on his side.

Maybe he wasn't longing for something, but _someone._

**.:.:.**

There's a Menagerist uptown that works on canine models.

He makes the trek on foot, not wanting to waste money on the speedway fare. The Menagerist's shop is well-decorated, and he hesitates awkwardly in the door. There's a woman behind the counter, and she looks up to spot him in the entryway. Her hair is done up in a high ponytail, and it bounces as she makes her way around the corner.

He's sure he must look like an idiot, some downtowner holding a worn duffel bag, but she flashes a million-watt smile at him. "How can I help you today?" she asks, and he rocks back on his heels before approaching.

"I found an automaton on the street, and she --" he stops to correct himself "-- _it_ won't turn on." A little white lie. She doesn't need to know that he found it years ago, and she doesn't need to know that he's been keeping it.

The woman raises an eyebrow, and he gently sets the bag on the counter. "I don't know what model it is, but I thought I should take it to a professional."

The Menagerist sidesteps to get behind the counter, and she pulls Luna from the bag to lay her on the counter. She quirks her lips to one side when she sees the inexperienced hinge repair he made a year ago, and Boxer glances away to hide his guilt.

After a close look at the model, she ducks to grab her personal terminal from under the counter. She has a portable one, nothing like the clunky model he has at home. She taps a few things before syncing it to Luna's systems, and her frown deepens.

She lifts her head to look at him. "You said you found this on the street?" she asks. Boxer nods; too late to back out of the lie now. The Menagerist sets down her terminal. "I'm not surprised. This model was trashed after unsatisfactory customer results. A lot of people threw them out."

"Why?" Boxer asks without thinking, and the Menagerist closes the terminal applications.

"Faulty parts, clingy behavior, over-excitement. They didn't make good pets."

He opens his mouth to argue -- she had been a fine pet, even with her difficulties. Thinking better of it, he purses his lips.

The woman doesn't seem to notice. "From what I heard, the servers for this model got shut down the other day." She puts her hands on her hips. "Thanks for bringing it back, the parts can be recycled. I'm glad you found it, it would have been a shame to let all this get marked as scrap metal."

Boxer glances down at Luna's face before looking back up. His stomach twists in a sharp, ugly way. "No problem," he says, and he stuffs his hands in his pockets. "If there's no way to fix it, I guess it's for the better."

Humming, the Menagerist gathers what's left of Luna up in her arms. "Well you know, a machine without server support is like a person without Selections. Everything needs guidance, and automatons are no exception."

He feels nauseous. "Yeah, no kidding," Boxer says flatly, and he turns to leave before she can say anything else.

**.:.:.**

He dreams again, of red skies and yellow fields. There's a feeling of panic in this one, a despairing sense of loss, and he glances up as someone takes his hand.

Boxer wakes up before he can see who it is.

He leans over to set his forehead against his knee, trying to calm his heartbeat. The dream is more like a nightmare, only twice as frightening. He wonders if it means something -- perhaps he was getting too lonely?

Boxer shakes his head. If he tried to psychoanalyze himself, he'd just end up deciding it was the sign of some deep, inner turmoil.

It was just a dream, and he could wake up from dreams.

**.:.:.**

For his twenty second birthday, Theo presents him with a jacket.

It's nicer than anything he has in his closet, complete with gold buttons and double stitching. There's a wide, glimmering triangle over the back, and Boxer folds the fabric over in his hands.

"I don't want to know how much you spent on this," he says, and Theo laughs.

"Think of it as an investment." He gestures at the symbol over the back. "I thought a gold triangle was recognizable enough."

Raising a brow, he glanced back down at the design. An equilateral triangle, faced down and set in gold. Simple, but it could be memorable in the right context. Boxer glances back up. "You went to all this trouble to help me build a brand?"

Theo looks thoughtful. "You could say that. That, and it _is_ your birthday," he points out, and Boxer stands to put it on.

It straightens nicely over his shoulders, and he takes the time to cuff it properly. "Thanks, Theo," he says, turning his arm over to check the sleeves, and Theo waves a hand.

"No problem, just make sure to hand-wash it."

"I hate to break it to you, but we both know I'm going to dump it in the washer with everything else."

Theo sighs. "I assumed as much."

**.:.:.**

'Check your census data!" says the notification on his terminal, and Boxer raises a brow as he taps the reminder.

"As the archives enters a new era, there is many changes being made," comes the voice, and he recognizes it as Bailey Gilande. He'd heard rumors that she was taking over the archival system. Cloudbank was due for a remodel, and she seemed like a good person to lead the effort.

Gilande keeps talking, her words following the script below. "If you have difficulties searching your information in the census, contact the Archives to report the issue. Thank you, and Cloudbank appreciates your cooperation."

Well, it was worth a shot. He searches himself, typing in the now-unfamiliar letters of his real name, and his terminal runs through a series of clicks and loading screens.

"No results. Try again?"

Strange. He tries again, and the display flicks back to the same screen. Backtracking through the data banks, he finds the Selection records. They stretch down the screen in an alphabetical list, and he swipes his way to the bottom.

'List of citizens who declined Selections: 0'

Either they'd just missed him, or Cloudbank didn't like having their 100% Selection rate shattered by an outlier. He shuts his terminal down and pulls away from his desk, stretching his arms. He could report it, throw a grand fit and get himself added, but he likes the idea of being unlisted.

No-one could single him out and see he was Selectionless, and no-one could snoop around in his personal file.

He was truly Mr. Nobody now.

Somehow, it feels less like a curse and more like a chance to start over.

**.:.:.**

Red seems to climb in the polls overnight, ascending the ranks as Cloudbank's rising star. By the end of the year, she's gotten her first poster on Goldwalk. It's a simple thing: just a portrait of her in front of the mic, eyes closed against a melody he can't hear.

People stop to snap photos of it, and he begins to see her name everywhere. Mentioned in articles, on posters, in polls and show listings. She performs wherever she can, whether it's in a high-class lounge or in the middle of an auditorium. Her dedication is admirable, even the commentator Wave Tennegan agrees.

Boxer attends more shows than he misses, just out of curiosity. He feels strange for doing it, like he's catching glimpses of her through a frosted window. He always leaves early, just to avoid an accidental meeting. She's succeeding, and he doesn't want to be the thing that holds her back.

Only twenty three, and already one of the city's best.

He's proud of her, even if he can't tell her that.

Still, sometimes he worries for her. He's noticed the pattern, felt the growing anxiety of the people around him. People were disappearing, important people, and there's a lingering sense of danger in Cloudbank. He can feel it, under the ever-present, electric tranquility of the city.

There's unrest in Cloudbank, and it's not going away anytime soon.


	6. Red

**.:.:.**

**Red**

**.:.:.**

He comes to every show.

She noticed him six performances ago. He seemed familiar, like someone she should have remembered. There was something about him that always caught her eye. Something about the way he stood, shoulders squared and broad with his hands in his pockets. Something about how he was never late, but always the first to leave.

Like he was there for her, and the applause of the crowd was just an encore.

The symbol on his jacket would always flash at her, catch the rising lights until it glittered, a golden triangle on a blank, black canvas.

He always watches her arrive, she always watches him go. It feels like an exchange: an unspoken, one sided agreement.

She wonders if he'll ever get bored of her; stop buying tickets and use the time for something more productive.

She wonders why that thought bothers her.

**.:.:.**

It happens quickly and ends just as fast, like a burst of rain on a clear day.

Usually her crowds are quiet; they let her work, and she sings for them in return. The people of Cloudbank are nothing if not reasonable.

But tonight, things are different. But even when everything changes, nothing changes.

She still sings, still closes her eyes against the tide of the music and lets the theatre echo her voice back to her. She pretends they aren't there-- it's always easier that way, to drift away and find the tune herself. She doesn't need an audience to tell her how to make her music.

The altercation in the crowd comes first. It's nothing but a scuffle, an argument turned ugly, but it grows until it's a beast of its own, thrashing and biting.

The stage lights turn on above her, lighting up the audience in harsh hues of yellow and white, and she turns her face away from the brightness. Or maybe just away from scene unfolding in front of her.

Someone gets slammed up against the stage in the same moment, the force of it making the stage tremble beneath her feet. Red takes a step backwards as the impact sends the mic toppling over. There's shrieking feedback as it hits the floor, and she slaps her hands to her ears and backs away further, her heart rising to keep a frantic tempo in her throat.

A bottle flies towards the stage to shatter to her left.

The pieces glint and gleam as they skitter across the hardwood, and Red wonders fleetingly if her career would ever be the same after this. If this was the breakage she could never repair.

Her own personal vanishing point.

She turns to flee as the Administrators flood the pit. Her dress tangles around her legs-- damn Sybil for stuffing her into something so complicated-- and her heel catches on the silk trail in the same step.

She goes down hard, her hands and knees breaking her fall. Pain lances up her arm, and she lifts her hand to see blood and glass.

Her head spins. She stares at her palm, the chaos around her slipping into a distant storm.

Blood drips onto the sky-blue of her dress. She doesn't know why she looks up, but when she does, she spots him again.

There's more emotion on his face than she's ever seen before, and he stares back at her, lips parted like he wants to say something, but he's speechless. Mute in the spotlight. She knows him, _she knows him,_ but he's too far away and bathed in the balcony's shadow.

Someone grabs her arm -- Sybil, judging by the bite of manicured nails, and Red feels herself get wrenched up from the ground. She tears her eyes away from the figure above the stage.

"We need to get out of here, _now,"_   Sybil says as she drags her backstage. "And what in the world happened to your hand? We need to get you bandaged and out of that ruined dress -- a shame, I had it tailored to fit you perfectly!"

Red doesn't hear her, only hears the shouting behind them. She glances back at the audience, searching for him in the crowd, but she only sees the retreating shine of a triangle before the curtains swallow the view.

**.:.:.**

"Now, the Goldwalk Channel incident was quite the anomaly," Wave Tennegan says over the airwaves, and Red sets her chin in her palm as she listens. "It's hard to believe Red's performance incited such behavior, but Cloudbank hasn't been herself recently--"

"I think," Sybil starts, interrupting the broadcast, "you might need a bodyguard, darling."

Red doesn't look at her, just gazes out the window on the other side of her apartment. "I already agreed to stop performing, I don't need to draw any more attention to myself than necessary."

"You're actually going to take those Administrators seriously?" Sybil says, astonished.

Drumming her fingers over her mug, Red keeps her eyes trained on the distant view outside. "I caused one of the first riots in four years, I don't want to accidentally instigate more."

"They just can't handle your art!" Sybil exclaims, uncharacteristically emotional. "That doesn't mean you can just _quit!"_

Red shifts her gaze, eyes sharp. "I am not quitting." She sets down her cup. "Obviously my performances are hitting nerves right now, so I'll lie low and make new music until this blows over."

Sybil's mouth purses into a fine line, and she turns to rest her chin in her palm. "Fine. But please consider a bodyguard."

Boxer comes to mind, the distant memory of him floating to the surface of her thoughts. She wonders where he is now. Would he even want anything to do with her?

"I'll think about it," Red replies, and she stands to gather their dishes.

**.:.:.**

It takes a while to find him.

His name is a no-go, she never even learned his real one. She wonders if that was a fault on her part. She should have asked, but he'd seemed... happy being Boxer. She'd never questioned it before.

She searches the databanks, trying to find him through district information, then polling choices, until she finally stumbles across the Selection archives. Boxer hadn't made a Selection, so he had to be listed somewhere under the declined participants. She makes her way to the bottom and stops.

There _were_ no declined participants.

That had to be wrong. She remembers Selection day, remembers the number ticking from zero to one as he walked away. They had been Traverson's outliers that day: her with Music and him with non-Selection.

He couldn't just be gone. She shuffles through the archives for another hour, sorting through random people on the off-chance they might be him, but she finds nothing. He doesn't seem to be anywhere, at least not in Cloudbank's census. Even his old terminal codes don't work -- he must have gotten a new one.

In the end, it was like Boxer had just... disappeared.

Then, she finds Theodore Caverly.


	7. Boxer V

**.:.:.**

**Boxer**

**.:.:.**

Just like always," Theo says, more to himself than anyone else, and his hands move over his terminal screen. He swipes up the polling results before gesturing for Boxer's attention. The responses are growing by the minute, the votes pouring in as people make their bets outside. Boxer doesn't look at them. He doesn't really want to know.

Theo looks pleased with the results, though, and he tells him anyway. "You're winning," he says. "People like you."

"It doesn't really matter," Boxer says, standing up. They're just poll results. His results were a different matter. He doesn't wait for a reply before he's stepping out, striding down the walkway towards the ring. The entire arena is lit-up in glaring white, and it feels brighter in the spotlight.

In the ring, he forces himself to focus. The crowd isn't there, they aren't shouting and whistling and hollering, and all he can feel is the ground beneath him and the tense-relax of his fists. The referee is introducing them: the Martial versus the Boxer, and he breathes out as the whistle grates on his ears.

They circle one another -- funny, how every match starts with them sizing one another up like big cats -- and Boxer sidesteps swiftly away from a blow. He wins a round, flooring his opponent, but the next one takes longer as they exchange blows.

Something near the arena doors catches his eye, and there's a split second of clarity. Red hair, he thinks, a deep scarlet he'd recognize anywhere. It's followed by searing pain in his jaw, and he stumbles away from the blow. He digs in his heels, catching himself before he's floored, and the crowd _screams._

He wins by knock-out at the end of the round. The ref grabs his wrist, thrusting his hand above his head in victory, and he searches the crowd. She's gone; no trace left in her wake.

Perhaps she was just a mirage in the first place.

**.:.:.**

He gets a cut of the winning bets, which nudges his paycheck into the largest sum he's ever seen. They even gave him a bonus for 'impressive performance', whatever the hell that means. Maybe he should just get punched more often.

Boxer gratefully accepts the money, pocketing the check as he slips outside. The cool air feels nice against his bruised jaw, and he tugs his jacket tighter around his shoulders as he walks. It's a long walk from here to his district, and he wants to get home sooner rather than later.

There's a figure near the corner, their hood drawn up over their head. They're leaning away, leaving their face obscured by the darkness. It's almost like they're waiting for someone, and Boxer slows his pace to glance towards the other side of the street. Someone that wasn't coming, or someone like him?

When he looks back, they're looking at him, their face illuminated by the streetlight. It's a soft face, _a familiar face,_ and his heart skips like a broken record as they tug down their hood. Their hair lights up under the yellow light, and he knows it's her.

"Hi," he says, awestruck, and she smiles.

"Hey."

He steps closer to stand with her, and her gaze flicks from his eyes to his jaw. Realizing how bruised it must look, he smiles back. "It's not that bad, Red."

She looks back up, her expression sheepish. "Maybe not, but..." the unsaid words sit between them. _I saw you look at me, I distracted you, it's my fault._

Boxer shakes his head. "I've gotten worse, really." _It was worth it, just to see you again._

It's cold here, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, and Boxer gestures back towards the center of town. "Wanna catch a bite? Junction Jan's is pretty good."

Red arches a brow. "Junction Jan's?"

"Oh," he says, his grin growing into a laugh. "You have to try the Sea Monster."

**.:.:.**

They exchange banter over the flatbread, falling back into a rhythm they'd forgotten the tempo for. It's hard to believe it's been years since they last saw one another, and harder to believe they hadn't spoken since her last concert. As big as Cloudbank was, it was still just a city. He wonders how many times they passed one another without knowing.

She compliments the food, he takes credit for the discovery, and they both laugh behind their hands. He's sure the people in the booth behind hate them. They settle down after polishing off two thirds of the (aptly named) monster of a pizza, and Boxer crosses his arms over the table.

"What brought you downtown?" he asks. "I don't think anyone was expecting a celebrity appearance during the neighborhood death match."

She fiddles with her straw, stirring the ice around in her glass. "I was curious," she looks up. "About you. No-one seemed to know who you were aside from your fighting title."

 _Not even me,_ comes the unsaid words, and Boxer feels a pang of guilt. From Mr. Nobody to the Boxer, and not even Red knew who he really was.

He wonders if _he_ even knew who he was.

She shouldn't have to trouble herself with his identity issues. Boxer hums in response. "I like to keep everything under wraps, apparently." He lifts his bandaged hand as an example, and Red snorts. He pauses, thinking over another explanation. "Color me cautious, I guess."

He didn't want half of Cloudbank looking up his name in the census, just to see he wasn't there.

She studies his face for a moment before dropping her gaze back towards her glass. "Sometimes I wish I could do that. Pull away from the spotlight and live my own life." Boxer looks at her, and she sits up a little straighter. "I think I might have to, after last week."

He remembers last week: the riot at her concert. The public had been restless recently, and the disappearance of Niola Chein had only shaken them further. (He hadn't heard a word from Scrapper either, and he wonders if he left with Niola. No-one noticed his disappearance, but then again, no-one ever notices the bodyguard.)

The Goldwalk Channel riot had been the crack in Cloudbank's seal, and Red had taken the brunt of it.

Boxer picks up his drink to swirl it around. "A shame," he says, because that's the only word for it. A damn shame. Everyone was too caught up in their own rising panic to see the danger they were creating themselves.

"I wanted to ask you..." Red trails off nervously. She drums her ice-blue nails over the table as she thinks -- _one-two-tree-four, one-two-three-four_ \-- and it stops as she looks up. "Would you be willing to shadow me? Just for a little while... until this all dies down."

He's taken aback by the question. Whatever he was expecting, that wasn't it. Red must notice his surprise, because she keeps talking, her words coming out in a rush. "I can pay you," she says, "I know it must be hard to miss matches--"

Boxer sets his hand on the table next to hers. "It's fine." Her gaze drops from their hands to his face, and he pulls away. "I'm happy to sign on."

"Thank you."

He shakes his head. "It's no big deal. Want me to walk you home?"

The mood lightens the moment she smiles. "Starting early?"

"Free of charge," Boxer replies as he gets up, and he offers his hand. "Consider it a trial period."

He covers the check -- no use getting punched in the jaw if he can't buy flatbread with his winnings -- and they walk back down towards the Goldwalk district. Highrise looms over them, and she stops in front of the building's revolving doors. She hesitates for a moment, looking hesitant. He raises a brow in askance, and she takes a breath.

"You've been coming to my shows, haven't you?" she blurts out. "Your jacket -- I recognize the symbol on the back."

Ah. Of course the jacket would give him away. He makes a mental note to rib Theodore over this; the silly symbol was his idea from the start.

"Maybe I have," he replies, meeting her gaze. "Why do you think that is?"

Red looks suspicious. "Either you have nothing better to do, or you've been guarding me longer than I've known about it."

"Or maybe," he interjects, "I'm still sweet on that voice of yours."

She flushes rose-red under the light of the awning. Realizing his joke, Red smacks his arm for flustering her, and Boxer leans away, laughing.

He sobers after a moment. "I made a promise to myself," he starts, "back when we became friends. As long as you kept performing, I'd keep buying tickets."

Red goes quiet at that, and she stares at him for a moment before turning away. "Well, after today, I'll start getting you in for free."

"Benefit of the job?" he asks, and she puts her hands on her hips.

"Benefit of the job."

**.:.:.**

His knuckles are bruised, like he's barked them against a wall, and Boxer flexes his fingers as he winds the bandages in between them. Funny, how the act of hurting someone would always hurt you in the end. He's sure he could say something meaningful about that, but he's never been much of a poet.

Theodore is sill talking behind him, going on about what happened the other day.

Boxer doesn't blame him, it wasn't every day that he got whisked away and offered a job. Perhaps he was always a bodyguard moonlighting as a boxer, not the other way around. It feels right to walk away from the ring -- but that may be his good mood talking.

"You're a working man now, won't you tell me who you're shadowing for?" Theo says, and Boxer finishes another round.

He ties it off and starts on his other hand. "Somebody."

"Of course it's somebody, Mr, Nobody, but _who?"_   he insists. "Is it someone from Traverson? An old friend?"

Now, that was a little too close to the mark to be a coincidence. Ignoring his suspicions, Boxer rolls his shoulders in a shrug. If he didn't give Theo any information, he wouldn't be able to cross-examine him later.

Theo claps a hand over his back. (A little harder than necessary, but Boxer pretends not to notice.) "Fine fine, you're upholding customer confidentiality, I get it." Theodore makes his way back in front of him, ducking into his line of sight. "But if I spot you behind the scenes at some big event, I'm going to make it my personal duty to find out exactly who you're rubbing shoulders with."

"I don't doubt it," Boxer replies, and pushes himself up from the crate. "I'll see you next week."

Crossing his arms, Theo levels him with a glare. "I hope not. Focus on that new gig of yours, and don't keep coming back around here."

"No promises." He swings his jacket around to put it on, and tugs the lapels to straighten it against his shoulders. "I'd hate to get rusty."


	8. Boxer VI

**.:.:.**

**Boxer**

**.:..:.**

To the public eye, Red was a rather reclusive performer. She commented little on her performances, saying that the music spoke for itself, and took measures to avoid being seen in public. As one of Cloudbank's 5%, privacy wasn't something easily found, but she seemed to do alright.

And without performances and grand showcases to fill her time, Red's life is surprisingly... ordinary.

She never calls on him before noon, and when she does, it's for simple things. She pulls up her hood to attend concerts and speeches, and he tags along with her, feeling more like a companion than a guardian. He asks her, once, why she seems to attend everything Cloudbank has to offer, and she shrugs.

"There's inspiration everywhere," is her reply, and he spends an hour mulling over that. He'd always thought of Cloudbank as a place, not an inspiration, but Red seems to think otherwise. She writes her music to reflect that, using the voices of the city and adding her own melody.

Slowly but surely, things fall into place.

She writes more music, darkening her fingertips with ink as she scrawls out notes and verses over paper. She likes old ink pens, he notices, and always writes her notes by hand. He catches a glimpse of her desk when taking her home one night, and the wooden surface is blanketed with paper and ink cartridges. 

Red must notice his staring, because she laughs and pulls the door open a little farther. "I'm terrible at keeping things organized. Sybil keeps giving me folders, but..." she trails off, gesturing at the leaning towers of books and sheet music.

"Looks like you've been working hard," he says, and she hums.

"I've been doing a lot of lyric-less work, just to keep myself busy while I decide what to sing about." She invites him in and moves to grab some of the music, straightening it into a neat stack. "I'll have to perform some of it for you. I won't be taking any of it to the stage, so you can be my audience instead."

Boxer leans over her desk to look, watching as she sorts through titles and unfinished pieces. "I'm flattered. A private concert, all for me."

There's a piece in the center of the table, Red's slanted script reading 'Old Friends'. If she notices him looking at it, she doesn't react. "Don't get too excited, it's all unfinished."

"Even unfinished work is still music," he says. "See you tomorrow?"

She holds the papers to her chest and gives him a smile. "See you tomorrow. Thanks for the company today."

He pauses by the door, fingers on the handle. "Of course." It is his job, after all.

Even if sometimes, it feels more like a privilege.

**.:..:.**

Inevitably, trouble stirs.

There's something dangerous under Cloudbank's surface, a lurking panic that wakes a little more every day. Maybe it's new, or perhaps it's been lying dormant for years.

It seemed the Channel was just the first incident in an ongoing series.

On the same day Bailey Gilande goes missing, he and Red unknowingly go out for drinks. The Mixin is full, which offers a good cover. Red stuffs her trademark hair under a scarf, pinning her bangs away from her face, and Boxer tags along.

For the first hour, everything seems fine. Everyone is too caught up in their own lives to notice the celebrity a few seats down, and they get away with it. That is, until the hostess recognizes her.

"Oh, it's you!" she says. "I almost didn't recognize you, with your hair covered up like that. You've really got such a beautiful face, you know." Red nods politely, waving her hands, but people are already looking. Her careful cover starts to come undone, and Boxer feels his muscles tense.

People begin asking questions, and Red answers them the best she can -- trying to back out now would just earn her backlash. Boxer doesn't blame her for trying, but there's a growing tension in the room, and he itches to leave. He's suddenly glad he's in the seat in front of her, the last line of defense between her and the rest of the crowd.

"Why'd did you leave?"  
"What started the riot on Goldwalk?"  
"Did you intend for such a reaction?"

At the last question, Red shakes her head. "No, I never meant for that. The song was for Niola and the rest of Cloudbank."

Someone behind her speaks up, their voice taut. "Bullshit, Chein was an provocateur, and now you're siding with her."

Boxer bristles, but Red lets the accusation go. She plows stubbornly ahead, facing off the silent danger without flinching. "Ms. Chein cared for Cloudbank very much, and she had the city's best interest in mind."

"You're just like the rest of them," the man says, "preaching your pretty words until you disappear too. Why not clock out early and head for the Country?"

The rising voices in the room get louder. More questions, more accusations, more angry words. Red sinks back against the counter, her eyes flashing towards the door, and Boxer stands up. "Enough," he says, voice carrying over the commotion, and he reaches behind him to grab Red's hand. "That's enough."

In retrospect, it all seemed to happen in a single moment. There's a shattering 'crack' behind them, the dance of glass over hardwood making his head turn. A broken bottle is dangerous enough, no matter what Cloudbank's laws say about weapons. Boxer moves first and thinks second, putting himself in front of Red, and the blow comes arcing towards him.

It whips his head to the side, pain sparking like a match over his face. It's just a graze, and Boxer grits his teeth. He steps forward again, catching the man's wrist on an upswing. "Stop it."

They hold there for a moment, stuck in a stalemate, and Boxer feels the blood come rushing over his nose. When the man doesn't back down, Boxer shoves forward, slamming him against the bar. He buckles under the pain, dropping the bottle, and Boxer feels a pang of guilt.

Dipping to pick up the bottle, he throws it over the counter -- out of reach.

"Call an Administrator," he says, backing up, and several people rush to find their terminals. Boxer turns back around to take Red's hand, pulling her towards the back doors of the bar. She doesn't say anything, too stunned to speak, and they make the short walk back to Highrise in silence.

She kicks into gear the moment they walk into her apartment, dashing off to find bandages. He accepts her rushed offering of napkins to wipe his face, leaning against her desk as she disappears into the bathroom. She comes back with a wet rag and a dusty first-aid kit, looking stricken.

"Here, let me see," Red frets, tugging his hand away from his face, and her lips turn down as she sees the jagged cut.

"Do I really look that bad?" he says, keeping his tone lighthearted, but she doesn't laugh this time.

She doesn't let go of his wrist. "You're going to have a scar now," she says guiltily. Her other hand comes up to touch his cheek, the contact gentle. "I'm sorry."

"It's nothing, Red," he says seriously, earnestly, and he puts his hand over hers. "It adds character. You know, like a badge of honor." Her hand is shaking, and he pulls it away to grasp her fingers in his. "It's nothing, don't lose sleep over it. Are you okay?"

She doesn't look convinced, but she nods anyway. "I'm fine. I should have known better than to go out."

He squeezes her fingers. "It wasn't your fault."

Red searches his face for a moment before leaning forward, wrapping him in a hug. "Maybe not, but I'm sorry it happened," she says over his shoulder. Boxer hesitates before doing the same, and he breathes a sigh into her hair. He could live like this, earning her affection in exchange for scars. A bit masochistic, but he can live with that too.

"I signed up for this before, and I'd sign up again."

**.:.:.**

He forgets about the solstice until Red brings it up.

She sends him a message the night before, a hasty request for him to meet her at the Goldwalk Bay. "Be sure to get there before sunset!" says the message, and he gets there half an hour early, just to be sure. She meets him fifteen minutes later, her red hair tucked under her hood, but he spots her right away.

She rushes up to meet him, and she tugs him back towards the docks. "It's going to start soon, let's find a good spot."

"I think you've got a better idea of what's going on than I do," he says, letting her drag him along. "What's happening today, exactly?"

They find a place against the railing, a clear view of the sky and shore unfolding before them. She seems happy with their placement, and she leans over the railing to look towards Goldwalk. "It's the solstice, and Farrah Yon-Dale is painting today."

Farrah, the meteorologist. The skies above Cloudbank were her work, every sunset and sunrise hand-crafted ahead of time. Boxer hums and follows her gaze to the sky. It's still a light blue, spotted with clouds, and he tries to recall Yon-Dale's words.

The sky looks blue because we want it to, that was it. He wonders how she's going to color it for the solstice -- there hadn't been any polls for this event, so she had to be deciding herself.

Red bumps shoulders with him to get his attention. "It's starting, look."

The clouds are beginning to melt away, drifting apart in wisps of smoke. For a moment, the sky seems to hold its shade, but the colors darken and sparkle into something richer. The shimmering, sapphire blue fills up the entire sky, from one horizon to the other. It's beautiful, breathtaking in the most literal sense, and the water glimmers with it.

In one brushstroke, Cloudbank is painted royal blue from bottom to top, and everyone stops to watch.

"They say she did this for her suitor," Red says without looking away. "A woman on Goldwalk."

He's heard rumors about that. The affection between Lillian Platt and Yon-Dale was no secret, but this was... quite the display. Boxer watches as the blue fades into a purple sunset. "She must really love her, to change the color of the sky like this."

Red looks at him, gaze lingering on his face. He doesn't notice until she's already looking away, back towards the ever-changing sky. "Yeah," she says, "maybe Farrah's art is a way of telling her that."

**.:.:.**

Farrah's work on the horizon earns her a slap on the wrist by the Administration. She went too far, they say, she disobeyed orders. The public disagrees, and her petition becomes a city-wide effort to return her post.

Within a month, she's gone, just like the others before her.


	9. Boxer VII

**.:.:.**

**Boxer**

**.:.:.**

Red announces her return a month later. Sybil is ecstatic, arranging for venues and dresses and posters, and very airwave hums with the news. He and Red order flatbread and settle down on the balcony to listen to the broadcasts, her terminal buzzing behind them.

"Red is making her grand re-emergence, after a short break to write new music," Tennegan says, and he and Red hush their conversation to listen. Wave continues: "I don't think Cloudbank has ever seen such a return to the spotlight. The polls are reeling from her announcement, and she's even been voted to perform at the Empty Set, beating out Facsimile for the leading act."

"The city could use a voice right now, and perhaps she's just the one we need," he finishes, and the glowing praise doesn't go unnoticed.

"For such a straightforward personality, that was oddly... nice," he comments, and she kicks her heel against the balcony's edge.

She's beaming, her cheeks flushed from the praise -- or perhaps that's the cold. "I wasn't expecting such a warm reception," she says. "Especially after everything that happened."

"Hey now," he interrupts gently. "You're a world class act. A few detractors doesn't mean a thing."

She smiles, more to herself than him. "I trust your judgement." She crosses her arms against the chill, and Boxer shrugs out of his jacket to drape it over her shoulders.

"You'd think the weather vote would be warmer, with spring coming on."

Red hums and draws the lapels closer around herself. "The people of Cloudbank can be fickle."

Behind them, the broadcast moves on to mention the disappearance of Olmarq. Boxer listens idly before nudging Red's shoulder with his own. "You know, people are still disappearing. Faster, now, actually. And they all seem to be people with voices." He pauses for a moment. "You'll be careful, won't you Red?"

She turns to look at him, and she studies his face before turning away. "Of course." Red scoots a little closer to lean into him. "But I'll only start worrying once you're not here to watch my back."

**.:.:.**

He stays the night, and when he wakes up to an empty bed, he sits up.

A glance into the study tells him Red is at her desk, pen in hand, and he makes his way to the kitchen instead. It still feels strangely domestic, being in her kitchen, but he's getting used to it. He finds the coffee in the cabinet next to her teabox, and sets the kettle to heat.

She has way too many tea flavors, he thinks. He ponders over which one to use before choosing chamomile and lavender. Hopefully she still has the same taste in tea she did back when they were teenagers.

He sets the mug down in front of her once its done, dragging over a chair to sit beside her. "Still polishing your new material?"

She blows steam away from the rim of the cup. "Just a bit." She takes a sip and looks up, a smile tugging at her mouth. "Chamomile and lavender, you remembered."

"What can I say?" he replies. "I'm an expert at remembering tea orders."

**.:.:.**

"So the dress fits?" Sybil asks, and Red twists around to give her a good view. The gold fabric glitters as she moves, catching the lights of the dressing room.

"Like a glove," she replies, and takes Sybil's hand between both of her own. "Thank you, Sybil. It's perfect."

Smiling, Sybil pulls away to wave her hands. "It was nothing, really! Darzi is the one to thank for this dress."

Boxer turns to lean into the room, his back against the doorframe. "Maximilias Darzi? I thought he left for the Country."

Sybil turns a little, her smile faltering. "Yes, I think you're right. I haven't heard a word from him since this commission." She claps her hands. "Either way, I think you're the perfect person to wear his final work."

Red touches the feathers at her collar and hums, the noise low in her throat. "A shame he won't be able to see it."

"Don't worry yourself with that, Red," Sybil says, touching her arm. "Just focus on your performance. You'll be perfect."

She makes her way to the door before pausing. "Oh! I made sure to book the Empty Set for the rest of the night, just in case you want to rehearse for next time."

"Thank you. I'll make the most of it," Red replies, and Sybil lingers in the doorway for a moment before leaving, smiling curtly at Boxer as she goes. Boxer shuts the door after she leaves, watching as Red sits down in front of her vanity.

"That was kind of her, to book the venue for the rest of the night," he says, and Red looks at him through the mirror.

"Sybil is a good friend. It's hard to believe we met six years ago." Red stands up, looking satisfied with her appearance, and she turns to fix his collar. "Alright. Here goes."

He reaches up to stop her nervous hands. He wasn't the one going on stage, after all. "You'll be great. You always are."

She takes a breath, letting it out slowly before smiling up at him. "Thank you."

"Anytime."

She stops him again when they near the curtain, and he can see the lone microphone on stage behind her. "It's time for me to go on. Wish me luck?"

He dips to kiss her cheek, not wanting to smudge her lipstick. "Good luck."

 **.:.:.**  
  
Despite its name, the Empty Set feels... lonely without its audience. Boxer hangs back as Red rehearses, not wanting to break her concentration. He never gets bored of this, listening to her sing. Hearing her practice was like getting a private concert, only he gets to hear all the things that never make it to the stage.

Still, there's something uneasy about tonight. He wants to chalk it up to the eerie emptiness of the auditorium, but the feeling nips at him the longer they stay. It sets his teeth on edge, and Boxer's heart nearly leaps from his chest when he hears the auditorium doors open.

Red pauses her solo performance to speak. "Sybil, I thought you went home."

It's just Sybil, he thinks to himself, but something pushes him onward. He steps toward the curtain, catching a glimpse of the scene beyond. It's not just Sybil, it's a group, and Red's voice bounces back as she speaks again.

"Is something wrong?"

Something _is_ wrong, and Boxer starts to make his way towards her. Something is deeply, terribly wrong, and he has to stop it.

"We're terribly sorry about this," comes a voice, _Grant Kendrell's voice,_ "but we do it all -"

He watches Grant's hand move -- palm down, fingers straight -- and the object before him flies forward. It gleams, catching the lights as it hurdles its way towards her.

Towards _Red._

There's no time. Boxer throws himself in front of her, and Kendrell's words seem to echo endlessly, dragging him down **.**

"- For Cloudbank."

Red's scream starts and stops just as abruptly, the rest of it freezing in her throat. He braces himself for the pain, but he still isn't ready. His vision whitens into nothing, darkening at the seams, and slowly, surely, the stars start to flicker.

He thinks of that night, of the darkness over Cloudbank. It sweeps across the city, blacking out every

light

along

the way.

PROCESSING...  
PROCESSING...  
**ERROR:** SUBJECT DATA CORRUPTED DURING TRANSFER.  
**ERROR:** SUBJECT NOT FOUND.  
PROCESSING...

... begin()


End file.
